Shadow Skeletons
by horsecrazy2
Summary: The picture tube of his mind flips channels, and he is not holding the remote.' A peek into Seifer's mind while he is trapped in Time Compression.


**Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VIII unfortunately belongs to Squaresoft and not me, so please don't sue me. I don't have that much money anyway, and I'm also really mean. **

**Shadow Skeletons**

Unknown

Time Compression

His mind is the fraying static of a broken television, and the eternal white noise of her voice follows him into the gray mist shroud that is his surroundings.

_-Are you a man or a boy?-_

_-He thinks _I'm a man, dammit, _and lifts Hyperion for the killing blow against the scarred forehead that is a mirror to his own-_

He can't see--he is either blind, or there is simply nothing to see as he stumbles into this strange dimension, his coat flapping after him like persistent dove wings, dirty like ash, ratty like battlefield attire--

The picture tube of his mind flips channels, and he is not holding the remote.

_-Why can't you kill them? Are they better than you-_

_-And he thinks _No no no, they're not better than me; no one is better than me_-_

He can feel fingers against his temples, tight like steel bands, the garrote that pulls its killing wire rigid around his brain. His steps are faltering, stumbling, weak--everything that he didn't used to be--and they raise arid puffs of substance. He can't tell what it is. Dirt? It is gunmetal haze, and it twines his legs like a sleepy cat.

He is supposed to be the winner; he is always the winner, because they are not as good as him, but now half-glimpses of things he can't quite remember rape his mind--

_-Hyperion's twin is fierce starlight in front of his eyes, a bar of moon illumination that stings his eyes-_

_-He feels the laughter build in his chest as the swirling ballet that is the dance of his blade splits her pretty cheek, right below her Instructor's stern eyes, and he is confused: is it his laughter, or hers? She has crawled in his mind for too long, until he can't distinguish where he begins and she ends-_

And now he wonders: is he really the winner? Or is this his Knight's death?

The vomit that sears his tongue is a corrosive splash against the taste buds. The blood that splatters slowly from one nostril is a perfect ruby droplet in this place of monochrome mist.

His knees buckle like broken dam water beneath him.

Fear is the predator's talon that opens his guts, and spills his intestines into the shredded meat of his palms. He stares in bewilderment at his hands, because he can't remember how they got like that, can't remember who marked him, when he is supposed to be the best.

_-That was wonderful, Seifer. You'll make some lucky girl a handsome knight in shining armor one day-_

Her voice beats its hammer fists against his head. She used to sound much gentler, didn't she? She used to bandage his scratches, and tell him--

_-Seifer, you should be more careful-_

He is so alone without her. She is not in this tornado gale of silver vapor that wraps him in its stormy pall, and she is disappearing from his head now--he tries to hold onto her even as a part of him thinks that maybe he's supposed to let her go--

_-Are you a boy or a man?-_

_-I'm a man, dammit-_

Somewhere beyond where he can see, he hears the echoing thunder blast of footsteps; they are hushed, hurried, and they sound like they run right past him--maybe they do, but he still can't see them, and he is alone with his blood and his vomit.

_-She promises him glory, and he bends down on one knee, beaming like the sun's polished gold halo above her head, because this is his Knight's dream, given substance at last-_

She rips herself from his head like an avenging claw, savage and wrathful. He screams as she leaves him--how can he protect her if she is gone?

_-Who will bandage his scratches now, he thinks as she takes the fragile shaft of his throat into her hand-_

-_You said you were a man-_

_-I'm not a boy anymore-_

His fingers grip the ground like he tries to grip her vanishing presence, and inside his head he screams: _Don't fucking leave me!! I can do better! _

She is punishing him because they were superior, and the hooks that are the anchor ropes mooring him to her snap; he is adrift.

He is adrift, and he can't swim. He panics in the gray smog that is the hollow void she leaves behind, and his lips pant like the frantic gills of a beached fish.

_-Why can't you kill them?-_

_-I can; I swear. Next time-_

_-Next time is a combat zone clash of blood and sweat, chaotic and brutal. She is the distraction that is his undoing, the star glitter of light off her spectacles like a spear jab to his eyes…the swing of his blade hesitates, and then he is defeated, and it is no wonder she abandons him-_

He tears at the ground like he can dig his way back to her, and his knuckles are just scraps of hanging flesh now, even though nothing feels solid beneath his shattered nails. He can feel acid tears streaking their diamond tracks of moisture through the war grime of blood and dirt, because she doesn't want him anymore and he is going stark fucking raving mad in this place that is cold and colorless.

Is he still alive? Is this the hell his failure has earned him?

_I told you I could do better! _he thinks, and then he sobs her name a few times, begging the memories to stop their endless storm drain circling--

_-I made cookies, Seifer. Come inside, ok?-_

_-You were supposed to be stronger than them. Did I make the wrong choice?-_

_-I _am _stronger-_

They stuff his head like cotton wads, soaking up the splintered prisms of his mind, the images of his recollections fusing into one melted glass amalgamation that is just a few broken pieces of time all jumbled together.

_-Her glasses slide down her prim nose, and he wants to push them back into place, because without them she is not his instructor-_

_-He is the victor standing over his defeated combatant dripping his veins of crimson down the curve of his brow-_

_-She is like eternal sunshine in his arms, forever warm and smelling faintly of flowers, and she smiles up at him with her twinkling brown doe eyes-_

_-Cadet Almasy, did you finish your assignment?-_

_-His boot heels tremble his desk where they thud soundly to rest, and he can see her glaring at him again-_

His stomach is inside out, and it is slithering up his throat, leaving its slime trail of stomach acids behind to burn his esophagus. He hears their running feet again, and they are shadow creatures now, skeleton corpses half-formed in the heather fog embracing him. He lifts his head from where the slack muscles of his neck have let it collapse, and he wonders if they know he's here.

Do they care?

He just wants to go home.

He sees the shadow skeletons again, blurring in and out of focus. They remind him of his half-memories of small children playing in dark ocean waves under a firework-lit sky--

_-The meteor shower sparks hurt his eyes, but they are beautiful, so he doesn't care. They paint her face in gradations of heliotrope and green, and he smiles as he sneaks wet sand down her shirt-_

He can smell salt, a saline tickle against his nostrils. It is imaginary, but he lets himself believe it, because he is lonely, and scared, and salt is the familial scent of his childhood.

One of the shadow skeletons steps from her cloud of dank vapor, but he can't see her face.

_I just want to fucking go home. _

_-Are you my Knight, Seifer?-_

_-Are you a man, or a boy-_

The footsteps are closer now, not hurried anymore, and he thinks he glimpses gold in his leaden surroundings.

The gold is a blinding iris above him now, solid ocher and omniscient. He flutters his eyes slowly against its glare, and his gray nothingness is gone now. He is wet-_blood?_-and his coat congeals around him like a too-persistent lover.

His shadow skeleton is gone now, and he wonders if she saved him.

His head hurts, and he can feel cold ocean waves slowly consuming the tips of his boots, where they trail into shallow beach water. The salt fragrance is real now, and gulls scream him a cacophonous welcome.

The sand forms a grainy cushion below him, and her voice has left deep shadow grooves through his mind.

But he knows she isn't really there anymore.

_-Are you my Knight?-_

It is just a memory echo of her question, but he answers anyway.

_I don't think so. Not anymore. _

He shuts his eyes on blazing gold, and wonders if his shadow skeleton survived.


End file.
